Tasting Tea
by GlassAngel
Summary: Sherlock returns from the hiatus, but he's not quite sure if he's home yet. Oneshot, Sherlock/John.


**Hi! I haven't done a Sherlock fic in a while, so here we go. Just one note: This follows a hiatus different than the one in Doyle's stories. In case the fic doesn't make it completely clear, it starts when Sherlock leaves to hunt down Moriarty and ends after Moriarty and Moran are dead. I hope that's explained well enough in here ;)**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to BBC, and I'm not making any money off of this.**

* * *

It's over. Moriarty and Moran are dead, and Sherlock…well, he's felt dead for most of the past three years, too. He has an idea how to fix that, though, so after he appears to make his report to an astonished Scotland Yard he finds himself headed towards Baker Street.

He can't call it home, even though that's how he's continued to think of it during his absence. For all he knows, John could be pissed at him for leaving without saying goodbye to his face, and Sherlock wouldn't be able to blame him. Or worse, John could have a new girlfriend, one less accommodating than Sarah. If John kicks him out, he won't be able to think of their flat—the flat—as home anymore, despite how much it felt like it before.

Maybe the time away has made him more cynical. He can't tell. He used to say he was a realist, but he knew others branded him an incurable pessimist. His current line of thought certainly seems both cynical and pessimistic, so maybe they were right.

He wouldn't be surprised to find himself embittered, and finds he actually expects it to some extent. A ploy to throw Sherlock off his game in the form of an attempt on John's life led him to abandon his oddly comfortable existence, taking him across Europe and Asia in pursuit of Moriarty and his subordinates. Moriarty's death four months ago should have allowed him to return to London, but the clever Colonel Moran proved problematic enough to delay his return. But last night's events ended Moran, and with both gone he could go back to the flat without any threat to its current occupant, left alone for a full three years.

Sherlock doesn't have his key anymore—he thinks he lost it somewhere in his desperate flight from Brussels to Prague, and why would he have needed his house key while running about the Continent, anyway? But he does have his lock-picking set, so he undoes the lock, makes a mental note to remind John to replace it with a better one, and clomps inside.

The sound of clinking china drifts down the stairwell, and Sherlock hopes to God that Mrs. Hudson isn't visiting from her part of the building because he really doesn't think he can stand her fussing at the moment. He counts to seventeen as he climbs the stairs, mostly to distract himself from the strange hard ball of anxiety accumulating in his stomach.

When he approaches the kitchen, John is making tea. It looks entirely natural and familiar, and is perhaps the most unsurprising thing in the world.

"John."

John looks up from stirring his tea—adding a sweetener of some sort, no doubt—and catches sight of Sherlock standing hesitantly in the entrance to the kitchen. Strangely, he doesn't appear surprised, but there's a small smile playing about his mouth as he shoves the mug of tea in Sherlock's direction. "I'll bet you haven't been taking care of yourself, am I right? Mycroft's people said you were alone, and I know how you get. This should make you feel a bit better."

Sherlock accepts the mug without complaint, which is possibly another change from those three years, and takes a large gulp. The tea burns on the way down, but maybe he needs the burn to erase that numb feeling that's settled inside him.

He tastes honey, so that must be what John was stirring into it. It soothes the burn inside his throat but not the one on his lips where they touched the mug. The tea tastes entirely too sweet for his liking, but it's perfect because it's exactly the way John takes his tea. After so long without any, Sherlock will take the human connection, no matter how small.

John has begun fixing another mug, dumping honey in haphazardly and stirring until it's evenly diffused throughout the drink. "You would tell me if you were hurt, wouldn't you?"

"Right."

"Good, so you're not hurt. Moriarty?" There's a slight tension in the air after John says the not-quite-forbidden name, but a few seconds is sufficient to dissipate it. Moriarty is dead, after all, and saying his name won't change it.

"Dead in Switzerland, at the bottom of a waterfall near the charming town of Meiringen. His network's been dragged into custody already."

John pauses and asks his next question into his mug, unable to meet the taller man's eyes. "So you're back for good?"

Sherlock smiles, and it's brittle but also devastatingly real. "I am."

John smiles back. It's nearly painful to see him looking so happy despite the dark smudges under his eyes and other signs of wear. His jumper hangs loosely, exposing the weight he's so clearly lost, and yet he's the most content Sherlock's ever seen him. Sherlock knows he looks the same for exactly the same reasons—the worry, the separation, and above all, the stress.

They drink their tea silently for a few more minutes until John clears his throat and sets his mug aside. "I wanted to thank you for leaving me a note," he says, fingering the mug handle. "I didn't expect you to, but I'm glad you did."

"Mycroft told me I shouldn't have left one. He was quite angry with me." A satisfied glint enters Sherlock's grey eyes as he recalls his brother's extreme annoyance. "Did you burn it when you were done reading?"

Seeming mildly amused, John responds, "Of course. That's what you said to do, so I did. Leave it to you to tell someone you love him in a note, though."

Sherlock tilts his head to the side and regards John curiously, completely oblivious to the enormous potential for awkwardness. "Oh. Is that not done?"

"Outside of sappy romance novels, no, not really," John tells him, letting out an affectionate chuckle. "It's fine, though. It's good."

"All right, then." Sherlock takes a moment to feel pleased that he's done something in a manner that's socially acceptable, if not precisely right. "So how has Scotland Yard been performing lately? I stopped by there earlier to ensure there won't be any legal ramifications for my involvement in Moriarty's death. Of course, Mycroft's people already took care of it and forgot to _tell_ me that I could go straight home."

The last word falls easily out of his mouth—tellingly so. Even after three years, home is immediately identifiable in this comfortable conversation with John over tea. Three years is a long time to go without that feeling, but the past half hour has gone a long way in filling the void his distance from Baker Street created.

John blinks, then blinks again. "Well, they've been doing tolerably well and I'm sure Lestrade will be over the moon to have you consulting again, but can we go back to what we were talking about before?"

"What, the note? I thought we already covered that."

Running a hand through his hair, John says tiredly, "Not exactly, Sherlock."

He eyes John critically. "You're mad at me, aren't you?" Sherlock guesses, and even to his own ears he sounds unexpectedly vulnerable. "I thought you were glad I left a note instead of running off with no explanation. Did I do something wrong?"

"That's the thing," John explains, and _finally_ there's exasperation tingeing his inhumanly unflappable tone. "You left me a note, but you left anyways. I've been worried sick for so long, and I tried making non-sociopathic friends or going on dates while you were gone, and I couldn't do it with you in danger somewhere. It isn't dependency, I don't think, just a screwy sense of guilt. Your note said you left for my safety and the city's, but trust me, I would much rather have gone with you."

Sherlock sighs and sets down his mug on the counter, then steps forward and places his hands on the smaller man's shoulders. "John," he says very seriously, "if you had come with me, one of Moriarty's men would have picked you off as soon as they were able, despite my best efforts at protecting you. I regret my absence as much as you do, but I do not regret its result."

John's hands come up to grip the back of Sherlock's neck as he relaxes into the detective's body for the first time in too long. "Neither do I. And I love you too, you idiot," he adds, and pulls Sherlock down for a kiss.

John tastes of tea and of home.


End file.
